Another Day, Another Destiny
by FrostedFire
Summary: Random One-Shots, some Modern AU, some in the Canon Universe. Others may be in alternate worlds (such as Hunger Games and Harry Potter). Updated when my muse decides it to be so. Submit a prompt for quicker updates!
1. Better Place

_I've been doing so many of these lately that I decided it would be a cute series for whenever I have time to update. Anyone second this?_

_Doesn't matter. Doing it anyway. ;)_

_- Fai_

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**Prompt: **(Valjeaned from Tumblr)

Grantaire burying an old pet or something and muttering, "He's in a better place now, I guess."

And Enjolras raises an eyebrow and says, "I thought you were an atheist."

And Grantaire just laughs bitterly and replies, "Well he's not _here _anymore and that has to count for something."

**Fandom: **Les Miserables

**Characters: **Enjolras, Grantaire, Courfeyrac, Marius, 'Napoleon'.

**Word Count: **631

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Marius couldn't stop crying.

Well, that in itself wasn't exactly shocking, as he was always crying when drunk, but it was the topic of his misery which held the fact in the previous statement. Marius was _crying_, and there was nothing that anybody was able to do to stop it.

It was true; they had tried. Courfeyrac had attempted to tell an amusing story at his failed attempts of flirting with certain gamine girls that held no interest, Enjolras lectured him about his lonely soul, and Grantaire, doing most of the cheering up, tried to do a few juggling tricks that were a bit impressive while drunk.

None of it worked.

Seeing as the rest of the Amis were much, much better at this sort of thing, the trio was debating wandering off. What was the point of trying to cheer up a hopeless case? Anyway, the only thing left to do was to buy a stripper (Courf's suggestion, of course), and although Grantaire agreed, Enjolras was _not _having that in the café. He was quite positive Musichetta would kick them out, or, worse, ban them. Not even Joly or Bossuet would be able to stop such a thing!

And that was as solid of a note as Marius' misery, the latter growing at an alarming rate.

He was sitting, his head practically dissolved in a cup of cappuccino, the foam touching the tips of his dark curls. It would have been a grand sight, save for the fact that his eyes were already a bright red, and his nose was dripping in an unpleasant way. This, among other small details, was one of the main reasons that they could barely bring themselves to announce the ridiculous nature of his predicament.

It was, however, enough for Courfeyrac to sidle delicately up to him, sloppily collapsing into the seat across from Pontmercy, and half on top of Grantaire. As the burly brown locked male glared at his hyper friend, the melancholy male gazed lazily back at the flame, lifting his shoulders in a graceful sort of shrug. "Yes?" he managed to mope out, lips forming a little frown as they let each word fall from his throat. It was so much like Eeyore that the bright centre took a few moments before daring to question what was wrong.

"Um... Marius, my friend. We-" Gesturing to the other two, he continued, "- have noticed that you seem to be rather down today. May I ask what is the matter?"

A moan.

A groan.

The trio stared blankly as the dark-haired boy threw himself into his coffee, downing the drink in a single gulp. None dared to interrupt this, and instead leaned closer, closer, their heads touching as the observed the misery.

_Marius_, they decided, _was really, really upset._

He finished his swallow, just as the friends were about to voice concern, connecting their calm souls with his bowed attitude. Luckily, it seemed that Pontmercy was actually going to _grace _them with his lovely thoughts.

"M-my c-cat d-d-died! N-napoleon was h-hit b-by a caaar!"

They blinked.

Enjolras spoke first. "Mon ami, I am certain that it will be all right! Bury yourself in your work, and I will help you get a new cat!"

"I don't w-want a new caaat! I want Napoleeeooon."

Grantaire, then, pushed Courfeyrac cleanly off his seat, and leaned forward, patting the young man on the head as he did so. "Ah, Marius," he remarked, "He's in a better place now, I guess."

Everyone turned, shocked, but Marius had already accepted that fact. Then, in a whispered tone, the marble leader dared to question the words.

"Grantaire... Although that was kind..." He felt a brow creep higher. "Aren't you an atheist?"

The man burst into laughter, clutching his stomach. "Well, he's not here anymore, and that _has _to count as _something_!"

That was when Marius burst into tears once more, and they all gave up.


	2. Sources

_Mhmm._

_Finals are bad. Evil, one may say._

_Finals are the antagonist of my life, and are much worse than Dorian Grey._

_But I got a 100 on AP Lit (after a 40 point curve, but...)_

_And now, after like a month of trying to crank this out (as my finals were done ages ago, but I'm finally finishing this a week before school restarts)..._

_I'm not sure where I was going with this. Sorry._

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**Prompt: **(Valjeaned from Tumblr)

'Modern AU Grantaire shouting "SOURCE" after everything Enjolras says in his speeches, until one day Enjolras walks in with a stack of papers and drops it on the table in front of Grantaire, and starts in on one of his rants and it's a packet of source articles for every single statistic and quote he used that night'.

**Fandom: **Les Miserables

**Characters: **Enjolras, Grantaire, other Les Amis.

**Word Count: **1, 024**  
**

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It was a quiet night at the Café, no different than the ordinary. Night had just fallen, leaving a coolness to the coffee shop as people drifted in and out of the front doors, the wind sweeping out the lovely scent and bringing mystery and a damp aura. None, of course, were bothered by this, as it was a daily occurrence, and as the familiar movements danced in the beginnings of moonlight, there was a loud argument brewing along the horizon.

Where in the centre of most shops there would be a square table, placed for the biggest parties, this humble abode proved to be different, possessing a _round _table in the corner, right where the very same issues were being voiced. This, too, was an average thing to witness- there was always some pair going at each other's throat, always in good humor. Now, though, it seemed to have a much more violent reason.

Jehan was contemplating this as he ventured towards the very same circle, his hands clutched around a green tea, shoulder shrugging up the black sack of books. Although the mood seemed to still be light, he found a sense of tension floating in folds past the outskirts. What in the world was going on? Had one of the speeches gone wrong? Was he in trouble for arriving- god forbid!- five minutes late?

No, it was nothing of the sort.

The issue was much simpler, if he was to be plain.

It was Grantaire.

It seemed that, as Jehan shoved his way into his spot beside Feuilly, the pair were in a heated debate over... Sources?

"What in the world is going on?"

His friend cracked a grin, running a hand through tousled brown curls which were streaked with paint on one side, and his hands still greased from working diligently at the local diner for his minimum wage. "You know how Grantaire has been demanding for sources?"

The poet nodded, sighing rather abruptly. Oh, how he was sick of the pair of them. They snapped, snipped, and every other synonym that one could come up with for arguing. And, like he and Courfeyrac had discussed multiple times, they refused to simply kiss and be done with it. Even Feuilly- _Feuilly!- _believed that this was true! The stone heart of the businessman (because, when one really thought about it, he was more of a statue than Enjolras) had almost melted, and he had even attempted to gossip with he and Courfeyrac!

It was ridiculous.

"Yes, I know," he managed to spit out, bitterly glaring at the silly duet as they continued to argue. "And it's irritating."

Feuilly shrugged, and tugged Bahorel, who was cheering on the pair, over to the outskirts, Jehan's usual spot. The three of them stood, plotting with their heads together, brows twitching lightly.

What to do, what to say? Did they dare interrupt the tirade of Enjolras for something as innocent as this? Could they even attempt to shove the pair of them together?

Not exactly.

Instead, they froze, and simply watched the end of the argument.

"- NO RIGHT TO ACT LIKE THIS!"

Combeferre, thank the heavens, happened to walk through the door at the exact moment, which let little shivers of relief dance down his spine. If there was anyone to steady this, it was him and Courfeyrac, though the latter was much more interested in studying one of the grisettes which lurked wistfully around their corner of the room. Jehan was unsure as to why they were able to steady him so much (perhaps it was their closeness from the past?), but with the steady arm on their fearless leader's shoulder, Enjolras faded off into the background, and the argument was soon forgotten.

"I will continue now on the fact of the matter. We have a rally very soon, and, as some of you may be aware, we have absolutely nobody siding with us. There is our group, there are our friends, and then, in the corner, we have those who we consider to be allies. But where do the people rest within this? They do not consider us to be equals, nor betters, and they dare not to be allies."

"Then what are we, to them?" the calm Jehan interrupted, taking great heed to place his thoughts at the end of the statement, awaiting the spew of facts and other truths which would steady the _amis _in their feet.

It came like a storm, the sudden whirlwind of speech dancing around, his words awash with hope and fear; care and carelessness folding into one as the thought was pouring from his lips. It was magical poetry, it was something that he was proud to be a part of. No one else was able to twist the magic into a talk as the leader Apollo, none able to make a poem where there should not be one.

He was simple: "We are their kin."

He was brutal: "We are their enemy."

He was soft: "We are not the nation. We are men."

He was _red_: "And we will change this for them! We will become their rallying cry! Their hope!"

And the dream-filled man was no longer paying attention. Instead, he casually followed the rise and fall of the man's breath, dipping a toe occasionally into the depths of the sea of thought. Here and there, he dabbled, always turning back to the poetry in his thoughts. Did he dare compose in the middle of a meeting, risking trouble?

Yes.

He was not a wimp. He might have been the youngest, barely seventeen, but that was nothing towards the wimps of the mind. Brilliance (if he could say so himself) danced past his lips.

And-

"SOURCES."

"COMBEFERRE!"

"According to 'The Established Regiment', the percentage of people living in poverty of this month exactly is 79%, as stated. In the article..."

It was definitely worth tuning this out.


End file.
